“Aren’t you helping your mommy clean?”
“No…” he says, barely glancing up from his folding, while I scrub cemented jelly off the table, which I spotted while walking over to get the dustpan to sweep away the “dirt piles” (3) I have scattered across the kitchen floor. At this point, any one of 8 feet have walked through at least one of them.
“But I’m doing her a GOOD. I’m making her a 3-d origami dress.”
